


Shadow Soul

by joeswoes



Category: All the Feels - Fandom, Starveil
Genre: F/M, M/M, Spartan Survived
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:39:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5399777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeswoes/pseuds/joeswoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaving the memories of the Fight for Io behind is harder than Spartan had believed. Malloy helps him come to terms with the horror</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spartangrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spartangrrl/gifts).



** Shadow Soul **

The dream begins with a memory: Searching for Malloy while the attack begins. Lost. Terrified.

Spartan jerks awake, Tekla pressed against his side, their hands tangled together. Beyond the metal walls, the Hyperion’s hyper-drive begins to hum. They’re jumping again. (They’re _always_ jumping these days.) If they stop, they’re dead.

"What is it, love?" Tekla whispers. Her crimson lips are pressed against the blond curls of Spartan's hair.

Spartan frowns _._ (He doesn’t _want_ to remember.) “I had a nightmare.”

“About what?”

He doesn’t answer.

~~~\o/~~~

Blond and underfed, Spartan stands at the side of the grassy field, his eyes on his feet. He hates this new elementary school - one in a line of many – but he hates his father even more for leaving them behind. He hates his grandmother’s shadowy house that he and his mother now share. Hates the mothball scented living room and the dusty attic where he sleeps. Today he particularly hates his snot-faced schoolmates, eager to show they’re tougher than the new third-grader who has joined them. Spartan’s already seen the principal once, but he suspects that he’ll be there again before the dismissal bell rings.

Hating’s easy. (Fighting’s even easier.)

A blur of shadow appears in the corner of his eye. Spartan doesn’t move, just stares as his newly-scabbed knuckles, rolling his hand to release the tension. A scab pops open and a berry of red blood appears. He lifts it to his mouth, sucking.

The shadow moves again, followed by a voice. “You’re that new kid, aren’t you? The one that got kicked out a Miss Tran’s room.”

Spartan looks up to find one of the boys from his class has appeared at his side. He’s small and dark, with eyes that glitter with mischief.

“You figure that all out yourself?” Spartan sneers.

The boy frowns. (Spartan tenses.) And then, oddly, the strange child begins to laugh. “You really are as piss-mean as they say!” The boy grins and offers his hand. “I’m Reginald Chance Malloy.”

“You gotta mighty big name for such a puny kid.”

“I might be puny, but I could kick your sorry ass,” he says, lifting his chin.

Spartan rolls his eyes. There’s no prestige in fighting a kid small enough to be in kindergarten. “You and whose army?”

Before the boy can answer, there is the sound of screaming from the far side of the field and both turn. For a few seconds they watch as a group of students surge around two fighters, scuffling in the dirt. A red-faced teachers heads into the fray, chest wheezing, leaving the boys are alone. This is the time for an attack, but Spartan doesn’t.

“So what’s your name?” the boy asks.

“Spartan.”

“Spartan?” he laughs. “What kinda name is that? Sounds like a candy bar or… or… or a washing detergent.”

For a second Spartan wants to hit him. He’s ready, his small hands tightened into rocks, but he’s tired of being alone, and this is the first boy who’s spoken to him in more than grunts.

He shakes his head. “Spartan’s my last name,” he admits. “My _real_ name’s Matt… Matthew.” His expression grows dark. “But then so’s my dad’s.” His fists release. “And I like Spartan better.”

“Your last name…” the boy murmurs. His eyes widen, and a gap-toothed smile appears. “You could call me Malloy,” he says. “Yeah! Malloy!”

For the first time in days, perhaps weeks, Spartan begins to laugh. “Malloy, huh?”

“Yeah.” He shoves Spartan’s shoulder. “Malloy’s a hell of a lot better than Reginald.”

“Better than R.C. too.”

The boy grins, like that’s the biggest compliment in the world. “Ain’t that the truth?”

“So whadya do around here for fun, Malloy?”

“Fight mostly. But I like tag better.”

And like that, Spartan gains a best friend.

~~~\o/~~~

Spartan wakes, shaking, body slick with sweat. He rises slowly from his bunk, pulling on clothes with shaking hands and heading out into the corridor of the star freighter. He could go to Tekla’s quarters, ask her to help him forget. (He has done it many times before). But he doesn’t today. It’s too hard to endure her pity. His memory keeps going back _there_ , and he doesn’t want to.

Instead he walks to the central command centre. They are tracking the Imperial Fleet again, preparing to destroy them. (As they’ve done every day since Darthku’s attack on Io.) Usually Spartan would at least make a point of arguing for combining forces with some of the other rebel ships – that was the point of the rebellion, after all – but lately he’s too tired to fight it.

His will died long ago.

With this thought flickering through his mind, he turns another corner and stops, going stock still. Tekla is standing in the corridor, waiting for him. He keeps trying to leave her but she always finds a way back. He doesn’t _want_ her kindness, but sex is his weakness, and she knows and exploits it. (There’s a reason she’s a leader in the rebellion.)

“You didn’t come to my quarters last night,” she says, approaching him, hands outstretched. “I was worried about you, Spartan.”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at her, his mind drawing in details: Pale skin and long waves of silver-blonde hair. That worried smile. Pain.

_She is exactly the same as she was the day Darthku destroyed the base._

 “I need to figure this out on my own,” he mutters, then turns and walks away.

~~~\o/~~~

Spartan and Malloy have been drinking for hours, the two of them one-upping the events of their short lives, earning their ranks at the Imperial Academy, when _she_ shows up. Curvy, fresh-faced, red-haired: all the things Spartan wants… and knows his friend wants too.

Malloy lets out a slow whistling breath, his gaze dragging up her body. “Well would you look at that,” he murmurs.

“Mmm,” Spartan chuckles. “She’s quite a sight for sore eyes.”

“The kinda girl you don’t see too often,” Malloy agrees.

“She’s a little above _your_ game, I think.”

“And yours,” Malloy snorts in easy good humor. “Jeez though, look at her legs. Go on forever.”

The woman is utterly out of place. She’s wearing a black dress with a string of pearls, rather than the fatigues of the standard military clientele the bar tends to attract. Both men watch her as she moves through the room, apparently searching for her friends. When she pauses next to their table, she catches sight of Spartan and Malloy, and a dimpled smile breaks across her face.

“Two for one,” she giggles. “Imperial Academy must have a special on tonight.”

Malloy does a quick salute. “Two of the best, ma’am.”

Her tinkling laughter hits Spartan right in the chest. With even white teeth, smooth skin, and a freckled nose, she’s even prettier up close. He pats the semi-circular bench where he and Malloy sit side by side. “There’s plenty of room, you know. Take a load off those pretty feet.”

“Oh no. I’m just waiting for the people I’m meeting,” she says. “But thank you.”

“Waiting goes faster when you’re with friends,” Spartan chuckles. “And someone as lovely as you deserves more of them.” (Malloy rolls his eyes but the woman doesn’t see.)

“Why don’t you have a drink with us while you wait?” Malloy suggests.

The woman gives one last look to the teaming bar, before sliding into the bench seat between the two men. “I can’t stay long. Just ‘til my friends arrive. Okay?”

“Then we’ll try to make it worth your while,” Malloy says with a chuckle. “You ready to put up with two military cadets? We can be a little rough around the edges.” Spartan smirks and takes note. Malloy’s self-depreciation is an art form. Women love it.

“Oh I don’t mind military. My dad’s in the Fleet. Vice-admiral to Darthku.” She flashes another dimpled grin. “So what’re we having tonight boys?”

 “Whatever you’d like, darlin’,” Spartan drawls.

“My name’s Selena.”

 “Selena then.” He winks. “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” She’s going home with him tonight. He’s already decided. (The fact that he’s doing this to compete with Malloy – his best friend and closest competitor in everything - is only an afterthought.)

Malloy is almost as quick, gesturing to the waitress near to them. “Your finest whiskey for our lovely companion, Selena.”

The server stares at him. “Finest?” she repeats. (They’re two dirt-poor cadets. Finest isn’t a description they ever use.)

Malloy winks. “The one behind the bar. Gold label with red writing. Glen something-er-other.”

Selena gasps. (She apparently recognizes it.)

The waitress shakes her head. “That one can’t go on your tab.” She puts out her hand, waiting until Malloy drops a wrinkled bill into her palm. “That’ll get you one shot,” she says, raising a brow. “You sure about that?”

Spartan almost laughs when Malloy’s smile wobbles. But Selena moves closer to him, pressing her breasts against his arm. “Thank you so much, honey. You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“It’s nothing. And you deserve the best.” He tugs on the front of his hair in an old Terran gesture of formality. “Please allow me, ma’am.”

She giggles and Spartan shakes his head. Malloy is far better at playing this game than he’ll ever give himself credit for. Malloy’s dark good looks are a perfect foil for Spartan’s blond brightness, and women like one as much as the other. The waitress goes to leave, but Spartan reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own crumpled bill – the last cash he has. (The rest of the night will go on an ever-increasing tab.)

“Let’s make that _two_ for the lady,” Spartan says, then winks. “Finest, of course.”

“Oh, but you don’t have to,” Selena laughs. “One is plenty. Really. I hardly ever drink.”

Spartan winks at Malloy over her shoulder, then turns his attention back to her. “Don’t have to, but I want to.”

Malloy grins. He’s on his game too.

The drinks arrive, and the three make a toast. Selena coughs when she takes a sip, the fumes hitting Spartan’s nose seconds later. Ten minutes after that she has an arm over each of the men’s shoulders. (The best whiskey in the bar is a heady concoction.) And when her friends belatedly arrive, they join the trio, though none of them break Spartan’s concentration. When he competes, he competes to win.

_Trouble is, Malloy does too._

The next few hours pass in a haze. The gold label drinks are replaced by increasingly rot-gut whiskey, and by the time they stumble out onto the street and into the darkness of the alley, Spartan knows he’ll be getting lucky. Selena’s hands are moving over all the places Spartan has imagined tonight. The only problem is she’s sharing those affections with Malloy, too, and Spartan still hasn’t figured out how to tell his friend to piss off.

She kisses Spartan – tasting of whiskey – but the second his hands move to her breasts, she turns to embrace Malloy. Before he knows what is happening, Selena’s undoing Malloy’s belt, sliding it down his narrow hips. Malloy groans as Selena’s mouth moves down his muscled body – from Malloy’s lips to his neck, chest, stomach, lower… Her red hair darkens to auburn in the shadows of the alley while she crouches before him.

Malloy gasps and drops his head against the brick wall of the alley, a near-pained look of ecstasy on his face.  “Oh god. Don’t stop.”

Spartan scowls. He’s lost this game as well as his petty cash; the thought is a bitter pill to swallow.

“Later then you two,” he says, turning away. Spartan hunches his shoulders in annoyance. He has to walk home. There’s no fare in his pocket. It irks him. “Gimme a shout tomorrow, Malloy.” 

He’s almost to the end of the alley when Selena’s voice stops him.

“Leaving so soon, Spartan?” she purrs. “I thought the three of us could go back to my place. You know… and play.”

Spartan doesn’t turn back at once. Everything has changed in the last seconds. He can hear Malloy panting, can see the oily reflection of streetlights in the alley’s puddles, can smell the faint musk of Selena’s perfume clinging to his clothes.

_But he’s my best friend,_ a voice inside him argues.

_Your only friend,_ another voice adds.

Spartan slowly turns. Malloy is looking at him with something like pain.  He’s breathing like he’s been running. Selena’s hands are around his neck and her eyes seem far less innocent than they did in the bar. She bites her lower lip as he stands, undecided.

“What do you say, Spartan?” Malloy asks in a shaky voice. “You up for something new?”

“I don’t know if…” Spartan’s heart tightens, all his arguments disappearing. “Do you, Malloy?”

Malloy slides his arm around Selena’s waist, walking forward. His jacket is askew, buttons open, pants slung low on his hips. There’s an expression on his friend’s face that Spartan doesn’t quite understand.

“I’m willing if you are.”

And when they reach Spartan’s side, _Malloy’s_ the one who leans in and kisses him.

~~~\o/~~~

Tekla’s waiting for Spartan when he emerges from the showers. She’s draped in a towel, her body teasing him with hints of curves and hollows, and promises of damp flesh. (She’s chosen her weapons of war well.)

“Hello, darlin’,” he chuckles, walking nearer, letting her see the effect she has on him. “You’re lookin’ mighty fine.”

She doesn’t smile.

Instead, she slides her hands up his arms, staring at him with that pained concern that makes him want to scream.

“You had the dream again last night, Spartan,” she says quietly. “It’s getting worse, not better.”

The blood drains from his face. “I did?” Suddenly the shower room is too muggy. He can’t breathe for all the steam.

“You did,” she says. “And I couldn’t wake you up this time.”

~~~\o/~~~

Malloy catches Spartan on the hanger minutes before he escapes. The Imperial shuttle stands open, packed with stolen supplies and ammunition, the start of a new life. The cubby in the bunkroom the two friends share is now empty except for Spartan’s Imperial uniform, one he’ll never wear again.

“So this is it?” Malloy sneers. “You’ve turned coat, leaving me behind?”

Spartan tenses, but doesn’t stop packing. “Walk away,” he growls. “Pretend you didn’t see me.”

Malloy crosses the floor. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Then turn me in.” Spartan throws his blaster on the empty co-pilot seat. “Go ahead. I don’t care.” His lips twist angrily. “It’s what a good little soldier would do.”

Malloy grabs his shoulder, spinning him around. “Stop it!” he hisses. “You know what they do to suspected rebels.”

Spartan holds his eyes. “Yes, I do.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

Spartan shrugs off Malloy’s hand. “I’m doing the right thing. The honest thing.” His eyes narrow. “You should, too.”

“It’s not that easy and you know it.”

“It never is.”

Distant footsteps pass the open door of the empty hangar and both men fall silent. The skeleton crew of the Imperial ship has given Spartan the chance to escape, but if he’s caught, he’ll be dead before the shift changes. (Or worse.)

“Come back to the bunk room. Let’s figure this out. I’ll pull some strings so you can get you a paid leave – a transfer even. You could go back to Terra. Maybe find Tekla, talk to her.”

Spartan doesn’t even answer. He climbs into the shuttle, begins programming in his coordinates, blocking Darthku’s tracking devices one by one. He already knows the code for the hanger door. (That cost him a month’s wages, the jump coordinates twice that.) But Malloy needs to be off the flight deck before he goes, or they’ll suspect him of assisting. The truth doesn’t matter to the Imperial Fleet, just the semblance of justice.

“You need to leave,” Spartan says, reaching for the hatch.

Malloy grabs the door before it closes. “You’re going to die out there!” he shouts. “You’ll never be able to stop running!”

Their eyes meet. There are too many things to say. Too little time. They catch on Spartan’s tongue, choking him. Malloy is more than his best friend. He’s his brother, competitor, fiercest ally, and sometimes lover. If there’s ever been a shadow-side to Spartan’s soul, it’s Major R.C. Malloy and it feels like he’s tearing himself in half as he leaves his best friend behind.

Malloy lets go and the door begins to close.

“You could always come with me,” Spartan offers, last second.

Malloy turns on his heel and walks away.

~~~\o/~~~

Spartan wanders the corridors Hyperion, lost and untethered. He knows it’s only a matter of time before the fighting starts again - Tekla will find the Imperial Fleet eventually - but the delay feels like a lifetime. It was so easy before. He knew why he fought. He knew who.

_But since Io…_

Spartan shoves the thought away and heads to the star freighter’s gymnasium. Here he wraps his fists and attacks the punching bag, pummeling the canvas until his hands throb and the voices in his mind go silent. If he can’t forget through sex, pain will be his anaesthesia.

He’s sweat-slicked and shaking when the horn echoes through the ship. An announcement follows seconds later: _“Captain Matt Spartan, report to the central command centre,”_ a robotic voice intones. _“Captain Matt Spartan, report to command immediately.”_

Spartan keeps punching.

~~~\o/~~~

They’re under attack and fighting for their lives when Spartan sees Malloy again. It’s the first time since the long-ago night he left, turning coat and joining the rebellion. The shock of it - seeing his oldest friend amongst the ranks of nameless Imperial soldiers - slows him. He turns, pausing, as his eyes catch Malloy’s.

“No you… not now,” Spartan whispers.

That’s all the opening the nearby soldier needs.

Spartan wakes, face pressed against the cold concrete of a cell, a man’s hand on his arm. He’s been tortured before and it’s not an experience he wants to enjoy again. His hands come up in fists before he even realizes who it is.

“Shh…” Malloy puts a hand to Spartan’s lips and gestures for him to be silent. His friend’s fingers are warm and gentle and so much like the times before that Spartan reacts before he realizes what he’s done. He turns his head, biting the heel of the hand across his lips. Malloy hisses, and leans down, replacing his hand with his mouth.

For ten long seconds the kiss drags on – desperate with need - and then Malloy lets go of him and stands. It’s over before it’s begun. Spartan wonders if his memory has betrayed him. They shared everything, once. Clothes, friends, lovers. Now all he has is Malloy’s back as he stares the other way.

“Get up,” he whispers. “It’s time to go.”

Spartan sits up slowly, wincing as the muscles over his ribs shout in protest. His head throbs in time to his heart and flashes of the final moments of hand-to-hand combat appear: _seeing Malloy in the crowd, pausing in shock, an attack from the side, darkness._

“Where to?” Spartan croaks, but Malloy silences him with an angry look. Malloy tiptoes to the door, peering out.

Spartan crawls to his feet and glances around the small rectangular space. No windows, no cot, just a door and a drain. He stumbles when he tries to walk, but Malloy catches him. For a second it’s all too much. If Darthku’s troops are going to break his will, they’ve sent exactly the right man to destroy him. Malloy is Spartan’s Achilles’s heel, and he knows it. His wounds are nothing to the ache in his chest.

“No… I can’t,” Spartan gasps. “I can’t do this. Not with you.”

He wishes he’d died in the fight.

“Hold on,” Malloy whispers. “I’ve got you.” His arms, warm and strong wrap Spartan’s chest, and for a moment it’s all Spartan can do to stay upright. Sobs hitch his breath and he presses his face to Malloy’s neck, breathing in gasps. His friend’s cologne washes over him, drowning him in memories of the two of them as young men, sleeping, curled one behind the other, in a single bunk. Everything’s gone wrong in the time since then, the whole world come to pieces. Spartan himself a broken man. The bugs destroying everything. The rebellion hasn’t soothed his wounds, just made his well of pain deeper.

“I’m so sorry, Malloy,” he gasps. “I shouldn’t have gone. I-“

Malloy grabs Spartan’s shirt, dragging him so close their mouths are almost touching. “Stop it!” he hisses. “They’ll hear you and kill us both.”

The vehemence shocks Spartan into silence.

“Who?” he mouths.

Malloy’s face ripples with pain. “My men, of course. They’re coming to kill you.”

Twenty minutes later, Spartan’s off-world and flying toward the rebel stronghold. Malloy, back in command, is planning the funerals for the three soldiers – his own men – who died as they tried to stop Captain Matt Spartan from escaping. No one knows it was Malloy himself who held the blaster that killed them.

_No one, that is, except Spartan…_

~~~\o/~~~

Tekla’s standing outside Spartan’s quarters looking angry and worried when he comes back from the gym. She has a communicator in her hand and she tucks it away as he appears. Spartan’s limbs are rubbery and loose, his body so tired each step takes conscious effort.

“You didn’t respond to my page,” she says grimly. “I was worried.”

“Didn’t hear.”

“Were you sleeping?” she asks in a quiet voice. She’s asking something _else_ too, but he won’t think about that.

“Nope. In the gym. Had the music up.”

Lies. All lies. Spartan doesn’t care. He tries to push past her. (There’s no point in punishing his body if she’s going to bring the pain all back again.) But today Tekla doesn’t move. She catches his wrist, holding tight. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, fighting down the urge to shove her away.

“I’m tired,” he says in an icy voice. “Let me go.”

“I think we should talk.”

He looks up, catching the look of pity before she can properly hide it.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There is. If you’ll just-”

He rips his wrist free, pushing through the door and slamming it behind him. He hears the handle turn, but he’s locked it.

“Spartan? Spartan open the door. Let me in.” Her voice echoes from the other side. “C’mon Matt. Please, baby. Open up for me…”

He puts his head against the cold metal of the door. Malloy’s laughing face flickers to mind and he winces.

Tekla means well but he doesn’t want to be saved.

~~~\o/~~~

Major R.C. Malloy stands across from Tekla, his face anguished as she rages, Spartan watching in growing concern. Malloy is his long-time friend. His once confidante and blood brother. He may be a turn-coat, but if Malloy is, then they are too.

Tekla’s convinced he’s a spy. (And maybe, Spartan muses, he actually is.)

“Why’d you show up now?!” she shouts at him. “Why not six months ago when the rebellion began? Why not sometime after that?”

“I had to wait until it was safe,” Malloy explains.

“Until it was convenient?” she sneers.

Malloy pins her down with his stare, contemptuously ignoring the shackles on his wrists and feet. “If I’d declared at once, I’ve no doubt Darthku would have killed me.”

Tekla smirks. “Might still happen.”

Malloy’s eyes narrow and he stares daggers at her. “Then you’ll never get the intel I brought. You want to know Darthku’s plan or not?”

“Oh there are other ways to get answers,” Tekla growls. “Care to test me?”

Most men would cower at the threat of torture, but Malloy’s chin rises. He could be standing on a podium, not as a prisoner.

“Not particularly,” he drawls. “I’d suggest checking Darthku’s intel first. It’ll save _me_ a world of pain, and _you_ a world of embarrassment.”

“I don’t embarrass easy,” she scoffs, “and there are other ways to fact check.” Tekla steps closer, and pulls a folding blade from her pocket. “You see?”

“Tekla,” Spartan warns quietly. She doesn’t hear him (or doesn’t listen.)

“You can either start talking… or I start helping you.” She opens the knife, dancing it over her fingertips, an angry smile on her curving lips. “It’s all up to you.”

_Tekla and her damned blade,_ Spartan thinks. She likes the fear it brings. Malloy’s eyes widen as she brings the razor-sharp edge to his chest.

“There are men and women who _died_ because of you,” she murmurs, dragging the tip of the knife along the front of his shirt. A thin tear appears where the fabric is tight. A line of muscle jumps in Malloy’s jaw, but he otherwise seems calm. “I’m sure they’d like to make sure I get the truth.”

“You can play your little game,” Malloy says in a haughty voice, “but it isn’t going to change the-” Tekla digs the blade deeper and a red flower appears under its tip. “Facts,” Malloy finishes.

“I’ll know the truth when I hear it. Keep talking.”

The knife slides up Malloy’s neck, pausing on top of his pulse point. The skin puckers. Malloy is leaning as far back in his chair as he can, his neck corded with muscle.

“Tekla.” Spartan’s voice is louder this time.

“You led the attacks on the Ceres shipyards,” she hisses, her face only inches from Malloy’s. “Tell me why you’d do that if you actually intended to rebel.” The blade wobbles, tip disappearing for a split second.

“Tekla!”

“You led that attack, Malloy,” she says, voice rising. “You were Darthku’s hand. You brought his justice!” The knife goes higher, a dotted line appearing as it notches the smooth skin of Malloy’s jaw and cheek. “That attack killed friends of mine. Men, women, children.”

“I was following orders,” Malloy says, his eyes dark with rage and pain. “Everybody follows them in the fleet. Everybody-“

He gasps as she reaches the hollow under his right eye.

“So what do you say?” Tekla snarls. “Eye for an eye?” The blade leans in, closer… closer… “Seems fair to me.” The knife dips in and Malloy’s gaze jumps to Spartan, pleading.

“Tekla, for the love of god – STOP! I’ll vouch for him, alright?!”

The knife clatters to the floor and she spins to face Spartan. She’s breathing hard – looking much as she does after sex – cheeks flushed, eyes wild. Beautiful in her anger, but no longer in control.

“You’ll do _what?!_ ”

“I’ll vouch for him.” He steps up and puts a shaking hand on Malloy’s shoulder. “I trust Major Malloy. He’s my friend. And if he says he’s honest, he is.”

Tekla’s eyes turn to ice.

“Th-thank you,” Malloy says hoarsely. “I-I owe you one, Spartan.”

~~~\o/~~~

Spartan sighs as the image fades. It’s a memory, of course. Malloy’s not actually there. (He’s had a hundred such thoughts in the weeks since they parted ways.) On the other side of the command center, Tekla looks up and frowns. “Do you need something Spartan?” Her words are more gentle than he deserves. They have a war to fight after all.

“I… I was thinking about Io again.”

Tekla nods to her second-in-command, gesturing Spartan to follow her into the hallways that spread like a spider web through the star freighter.

“What about Io?” she asks sympathetically.

“The people who joined us there. The refugees.”

She frowns and waits for the rest.

“There were people on the surface when we escaped,” Spartan says. “People left to die. They won’t... _can’t…_ survive a winter on their own they’ll-”

“Yes, there were rebels left behind,” Tekla says firmly. “But their deaths let us live.” She shakes her head. “You can’t save everyone, Spartan. This bloody war has certainly shown us that.”

“But, but... they can’t live like that!” he argues, voice rising. “What happens when winter comes? They’ll kill themselves before they let themselves be taken by Darthku’s troops. You have to go back for them, Tekla. To leave them to starvation, it’s... it’s inhumane...”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice catching. “But I can’t.”

It’s an endless argument. One that’s been raging since Darthku destroyed the base and they escaped to fight another day. Spartan puts his head down, his gaze on the grated flooring, so she’s almost upon her before he catches sight of her boots. Seeing them, his eyes rise in panic.

_She knows his weaknesses._

Tekla’s got her arms on her hips, her lips pursed in that look of obstinacy that months of living with her taught Spartan to both love and hate. He doesn’t say anything to her, just stands there. Watching _her_ watching _him_. Without conscious effort, a memory floats to mind. Tekla standing in the watery light of the windows in the apartment they shared.

_It is the morning of the end._

Tekla’s words interrupt before the cancerous memory can take hold.

“If I thought it would do anyone any good, I’d go back to Io,” she says gently. “But it won’t, Spartan. You know that as well as I do.”

“It _will_. There are people there. Our people!”

Her expression changes. He sees the emotion at once – sympathy – and he hates her for it.

“Returning won’t change what happened,” she says. “It won’t bring him back to you.”

He’s too angry to respond. _Of course he knows that!_

“I love you, Spartan,” Tekla says, “but I-”

Spartan turns on his heel and storms away.

~~~\o/~~~

The dream begins with a memory.

It’s early morning on Io and Spartan’s moving over top of Tekla, his hands tangled in her silver hair. His tongue plunders her mouth while she runs her fingers over his skin, tracing the striations of muscles. Tekla’s body is soft and pliant in his arms, leaving no sense of where she begins and he ends, the feel of her a drug.

Suddenly the door bangs open, the two of them jerking apart in an instant.

Malloy stands in the doorway, a jaunty grin on his lips. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the happy little reunion,” he drawls, “but we’re all about to die.” He tosses a blaster on the bed. “Grab a gun, you two. We’ve got company.”

Tekla’s the first one out of bed, jerking on clothes before Spartan has even processed what his friend is saying.

A sonic boom rattles the windows and the three of them turn as one. Framed by the shuddering panels is Tekla. Behind her is the bulk of the Star Freighter Hyperion roaring toward the base.

“Hyperion just broke atmosphere,” she says in a hollow voice.

“Hurry up!” Malloy shouts. “There’s not much time!”

~~~\o/~~~

Spartan wakes in the star freighter, bile rising in his throat. He takes a sobbing breath, his body shaking like palsy.

“It was the dream again. Wasn’t it?” Tekla says from the darkness at his side. “The last day on Io.”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t.

A faint light wraps around her when she climbs from bed, her body leaner than she was six months ago. She’s wearing the loose tee and grey pants that were her uniform in the rebel quarters on Io. (Six pairs of the same folded neatly in the dresser of the bedroom they once shared.) She stands watching him in silence, her head tipped to the side.

“Spartan? Answer me.”

He pulls on his clothes in jerky movements. He can’t push the dream away anymore. Can’t make the memory disappear. He sees it everywhere, the words of that long-ago day taunting him at random moments. Memories of the dead abruptly too real.

_All the death, the death, the death…_ his mind screams.

Tekla’s shoulders slump, her voice breaking. “You’ve got to talk about this. It’s not healthy to pretend it didn’t happen.”

He grabs her shoulders, shaking her like a dog shakes a rabbit. “Why?!” he screams. “Why should I remember?!” He lets go and she stumbles and falls.

Tears fill Tekla’s eyes. “Because he did it for you.”

~~~\o/~~~

The windows are shuddering, screams rising around the rebel base. Two more booms follow the Hyperion’s appearance, Imperial ships in quick pursuit.

“What the hell?!?” Spartan growls.

 “Darthku’s found the base!” Malloy shouts. “We’ve got to GO!”

Tekla grabs the blaster from the bed, dragging on a shirt as she darts from the room. She meets Spartan’s eyes in the doorway. “Meet me in the hanger!” she orders, then disappears. (She says nothing to Malloy at all.)

“Dragnat all!” Spartan mutters, grabbing clothes thrown willy nilly across the floor. Malloy turns to leave. “Wait for me!” Spartan bellows. Everything’s moving too fast.

Malloy pauses and smiles. (Spartan will remember that afterwards.) “I’ve got to delay Darthku’s troops,” he says. “You catch up with me later, alright?”

Spartan jerks on a pair of pants, slides bare feet into his boots. “Fighting side by side,” he says. “Just like old times.”

Malloy’s smile fades. “Yeah… Old times.”

In seconds he’s out the door, leaving Spartan to follow. When Spartan reaches the courtyard, the world is falling to pieces. _Io burning._

There are raised voices in the compound. Spartan presses himself up against the lee of the wall until they pass, then jogs down to the hangar deck where the interstellar transports await. _Hurry... hurry..._ an inner voice hisses. Every second of delay is too much.

Malloy’s not there.

But where’s he gone? Spartan needs to find him! His friend and comrade in arms is the last of the Imperial Guard to turn coat and Darthku will never let him stand trial if he’s caught. The Major will be an example. A martyr. Stripped and tortured until agony itself destroys the person he is. (Spartan’s seen it happen before.) With Io under attack, there will be no reprieve.

Spartan’s mind darts cat-and-mouse through the places Malloy might have gone: the hanger, command, ammunitions room. Panic rising, he finally reaches the barracks.

"Malloy!" Spartan cries, listening with half an ear to the fighting going on outside the walls. "Where are you?!"

There's no answer.

Spartan heads to the wash house at the same time a single retort of gunfire echoes. This time it is nearer.

"Malloy!" Spartan shouts. "Where ARE you, dragnat all?!" He pulls open the door to the showers, stepping inside the darkened bathroom without turning on the light.

Two things strike him at once. First, that the door won't open all the way; something is blocking it. Second, that it smells like copper.

In that moment, Spartan's foot slips. His legs go out from under him and he falls forward, landing, with a thud, against Malloy's still-warm body. The young man's eyes are wide and blank, black hair matted with blood. His mouth hangs open, silently screaming, a blaster clasped in limp fingers.

"No!" Spartan shrieks. "No, you can't! Please God, NO!"

But even saying it, Spartan knows it's true. He considers staying, waiting until Darthku's Imperial guard takes the holdout and dying at his friend's side, but he knows Malloy would want him to live. He also knows Malloy's death has given him one last gift: the cover Spartan needs to escape.

~~~\o/~~~

Spartan wakes in Tekla’s quarters. She has her arms wrapped around his chest and she’s rocking him like a child.

“Shh…” she croons. “Just a dream… just a dream…”

Spartan takes a sobbing breath, and buries his face against her chest.

_It was never just a dream._

“I-I keep dreaming of that day,” he gasps. “I keep dreaming of Io!”

“What about it?”

“About Malloy.”

Tekla pushes him back onto the bed, kissing Spartan until his sobs fade, then moving down his body. “Relax,” she whispers against his skin. “Let me help you forget…”

He closes his eyes as she tastes him, his hands tangling in her silver hair. Flashes of the past rise in time to the sensations: Spartan and Malloy standing outside the elementary school side by side. The same friends, years later, sitting in an Academy dive, a red-headed woman with her arms around them. Malloy arguing with Spartan on the deck of their last post. Spartan flying away, not looking back. Two friends in a war with no end. Spartan hanging onto Malloy’s neck in an Imperial jail cell. Malloy in a chair, Tekla’s blade to his neck, the blade glittering red. Malloy’s eyes wide and empty, a sheet of blood spreading in a pool beneath his still body.

_Malloy… Malloy… Malloy…_

And finally – after weeks of denial, the dam breaks. Spartan rolls to the side, catching Tekla in his arms and sobbing against her chest.

“Why?!” he roars. “Why did he have to die?”

“I don’t know.”

“I tried to find him that day! I wanted to save him!”

“Shh… I know,” she whispers as she strokes his hair. “It’s alright.”

“He’s gone, and I never-” His voice hitches with sobs. “Never told him the truth.”

“I know.”

“I loved him, and he still died.”

Her hand on his head pauses for a long moment before she resumes her petting. “I know, my love. I know.” Her voice breaks. “But Malloy _knew_.”

And for some reason, at that moment that’s exactly what Spartan needs to hear.

~~~\o/~~~

**Author's Note:**

> No copyright infringement intended.


End file.
